


Find Your Jesus, Find Your Kubrick

by littledust



Category: Lady Gaga (Musician), Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-26
Updated: 2010-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taylor Swift needs a muse. Lady Gaga fills the position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Find Your Jesus, Find Your Kubrick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [presentpathos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/presentpathos/gifts).



> A treat for you, dear writer! I really enjoyed writing this.

It turns out that hosting an awards show is not as fun as attending as a nominee. Taylor grits her teeth to keep her smile on as she presents Lady Gaga with what has to be her eleventh award. It’s not that she begrudges Gaga her victories, even if she is wearing a dress made entirely out of tissues--not tissue paper, actual tissues. Taylor’s just kicking herself for her seven straight months of songwriter’s block. Gaga can win, but Taylor should damn well provide some competition.

Gaga must have noticed her inner turmoil, because once she accepts her final award of the night, she murmurs, “Meet me at the afterparty” in Taylor’s ear.

Like she’s going to turn down _that_ invitation.

*

An overexcited backup dancer is the one to lead her through a little door tucked behind a curtain. As the door shuts, the noise of the party immediately fades to the merest suggestion. Taylor feels sort of like Alice in Wonderland, only she’s jumping down the rabbit hole instead of tripping her way into it, which she thinks makes for a more interesting story. She’s not really sure why she’s here; her only certainty is that she has to do something outrageous to snap out of this slump.

“You made it,” says Gaga with a lazy smile. She’s the queen at the end of the tunnel, lounging on a red leather sofa. The tissue dress is still in place, but she’s taken the metal tubes out of her hair, which tumbles around her shoulders.

Taylor lifts her chin. She might not be a fashion maverick, but _she_ is the one who’s invited. “Thanks for having me.”

“The pleasure’s mutual,” is the reply. “Now, let’s start small.”

*

What Gaga has in mind is significantly less scandalous than snorting lines of coke or gang banging a motorcycle gang, but Taylor feels a little ridiculous as she stands in front of Gaga, totally naked except for a glittery pink guitar.

“I’m trying to get away from my image,” Taylor admits, and good Lord, it’s the hardest thing she’s ever done. Her good girl persona is all the blogs ever seem to talk about, whether in a positive or negative light. Taylor’s never tried to pass herself off as anything but, well, Taylor Swift, but it’s gotten a little confusing over the years trying to decide where she stops and other people’s projections begin.

“Pink’s your color. Embrace it.” Gaga fires off this order like she’s in her “Alejandro” music video, the one Taylor couldn’t make heads or tails of but watched three times in a row after it first debuted.

Taylor is tired of listening to other people and tired of listening to her own self-doubt. “I’ll pick my own colors, thanks.” And what the hell, she’ll play naked for the world’s biggest pop star. She’ll improvise.

Gaga sits up on the sofa, raising an eyebrow as if to say, _Now we’re getting somewhere._

*

She starts out slow, strumming the chords to “Mine” until she sets off in a new direction. Taylor changes the key, changes the rhythm, and all of a sudden Gaga is snapping her fingers, little staccato bursts to go along with her jamming. It’s different, and inspiration comes in a hot bright little flash, like a camera going off.

“ _Some days it’s like I’m a mirror, showing you just what you want to see,_ ” Taylor sings, then realizes that she’s singing along with the Faith Hill song stuck in her head. “Um, crap. Sorry.”

“Keep it,” Gaga says, not missing a beat. “You’re not Snow White, you’re the fucking Queen.”

Taylor laughs. “I didn’t know you liked Disney.”

“I liked the bad girls until I figured out that good girls were just the other side.” Gaga is still snapping, fingers insistent. Taylor takes a deep breath and reshapes the infant song, uses a different chord resolution to bridge to something that’s definitely new.

*

“I still have this whole album to write,” Taylor says, but it’s not like she’s complaining. There’s a song emerging from this jam session, a song that’s still country pop at heart, but it’s got a rhythm straight out of a European club. The hybrid sounds strange but wonderful.

“Do you want to hear something I’m working on?” Gaga asks. “I think it’s only fair.”

“Sure.”

Gaga doesn’t even have to get off the couch to start up the CD player, since it’s right next to the sofa, hidden by another decorative curtain. When the sultry dance beat starts up, Taylor looks around the room, wondering if it’s somehow gotten smaller in the last five seconds. The light is warm, too warm, and the angles of the furniture are sharp. Taylor clutches the guitar, her only barrier between herself and the world. Well, and Gaga.

“ _Melt your sugar in my mouth, s-s-suck the sweet from my bones,_ ” Gaga growls along with the recording, and Taylor’s mouth goes dry.

It’s then that Gaga starts stripping off the tissue dress.

*

“I don’t want you to be me. You don’t want to be me.” Gaga looks her up and down, sex naked in her gaze. Her whole self is naked except for knee-high white boots and a pair of lacy fingerless gloves. “But listen, T, I like what I see. I love what I heard tonight.”

Taylor’s heart is beating in time to Gaga’s song, which is a half-psychedelic ode to sex and art, all wrapped up in a dance floor package. She lowers the guitar to the ground carefully, so it doesn’t break. “Show me,” she breathes.

Gaga closes her eyes and tilts her head, resting it on the back of the couch as she runs a hand down the long column of her throat. She’s humming along with her song, purring even, feeling her throat vibrate at the sound. Taylor squirms a little and her feet forget that she’s been standing for the past forty-five minutes.

This is Gaga, so of course the performance continues. She rakes her nails lightly down her breasts, cupping them in her hands and then stroking her nipples with just the tips of her index fingers, so lightly that Taylor can barely see the motion. “T, Sweet T, you make me so fucking hot I can’t stand it,” Gaga says. Her eyes open. “Watch me.”

She spreads her legs wide, arching against the couch to give Taylor a better view. Her vag--her _pussy,_ Taylor corrects herself, because the word just feels right--is not just shaved, but waxed, which really isn’t a surprise, but it’s surprisingly sexy. Gaga takes her time touching herself, moving her fingers in ever-tightening circles until she’s rubbing her clit, hips undulating with the motion. It’s all still in time to her song.

Lady Gaga puts on one hell of a show.

*

Taylor doesn’t wait for Gaga to come down from her orgasm before she’s straddling her, sucking one of those perfect little breasts in her mouth. She’s so wet, she’s never been this wet before in her life, and Taylor’s breath hitches when she realizes just how much control she’s exerting. She bites down gently, leaving little pink teeth marks all over Gaga’s breasts, listening to her moan.

“You dirty girl,” Gaga says, and slides her tongue into her mouth, her kiss silken and obscene. Taylor groans; she wants to rut against one of Gaga’s amazing legs until she sees stars, but she also wants the thrill of seeing Gaga come apart under her hands and teeth and tongue. The latter desire is winning out, but not by much.

“You love it,” whispers Taylor, hot and moist into Gaga’s ear. “I don’t even have to touch you to make you come.” She’s had her share of sex, but she’s never talked like this before. It’s a new sound from her lips, a new song.

“Touch me,” Gaga says, like a plea, like a command.

Taylor slides off the couch, kneeling in front of Gaga’s spread legs like a virgin in church. She stifles a laugh at the thought by wetting her lips. Gaga’s pussy is slick and flushed. Taylor leans forward, bracing herself on Gaga’s thighs, digging in her thumbs. Brief uncertainty gives her pause: should she just stick out her tongue? Is there some kind of technique?

One touch is all it takes before Taylor is tracing patterns with her tongue, all enthusiasm and inexpert grace. Gaga growls in approval, thigh muscles clenching when Taylor hits a sweet spot, teasing at it in steady intervals. Taylor shifts, her own pussy aching. She sucks Gaga’s clit in her mouth with the hunger of impatience, holding on until she feels Gaga shudder underneath her and above her, holding on steady and still.

*

Gaga moves incredibly fast for a woman who’s just come twice in the past twenty minutes. Before Taylor can bat an eye, she’s pulled back onto the couch, Gaga nudging her legs apart with one hand. She’s not touching her pussy, not yet, but her hand lies there like a warm promise as Gaga licks across her collarbone.

“I knew I could help you out,” Gaga pants, her laugh a warm puff of air against Taylor’s neck. “You in your sad maroon dress. I miss hearing you on the radio.”

“You probably don’t even like my--oh--songs,” Taylor replies, rocking back and forth over Gaga’s hand, the lace of her glove a tantalizing texture against her.

Gaga slaps her ass. “Not yet. And I like you, Sweet T, all hot and bothered and wanting.” Her voice drops lower. “You know, I don’t think I’m ever going to wash these gloves.”

“Jesus,” Taylor gasps, feeling like she’s going to melt from the inside out. “Jesus, don’t tell me that if you’re not going to.”

“To what?” Gaga asks, leaning back, the picture of coquettish innocence.

That’s enough. She’s done. “ _Fuck me,_ ” Taylor moans, and then three of Gaga’s fingers slide inside of her, curling towards her belly like a question mark. Taylor bucks her hips and somehow manages to yank Gaga into a kiss, a sloppy French kiss with too many teeth, but God, _God,_ she has the beginning of a new song and she’s having the best sex of her life. Lady Gaga is her fucking muse and she’s finger-fucking her slowly, with precision.

Taylor’s breaths are coming so fast they’re almost like sobs, and she’s twisting around on the couch so much that it’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen off. Gaga is teasing her, stroking her hard and fast enough that she’s almost there, then she’s pulling her fingers out gently, oh so gently, and it’s maddening and wonderful and Taylor feels like she might fall apart then and there. Then Gaga is back inside her, only this time her thumb is pressing directly down on her clit, _fuck, fuck--_

She comes not with a whimper but with a bang of her head against the armrest of the sofa, trembling as Gaga draws her orgasm out and out and out until her toes are curled and her eyes are shut and she’s sprawled boneless across the sofa.

“That was amazing,” Taylor says, when she trusts herself to speak.

Gaga nuzzles her. “There’s more where that came from, Sweet T.”

*

Taylor Swift sets the music world buzzing with her next album, _Snow Queen_. Most critics agree that the first single, “Mirror Mirror,” is one of the year’s standout tracks. However, a small but fierce contingent of fans and critics call her duet with Lady Gaga nothing short of magical. “‘Mister Sister’ is a fun little dance track that showcases Swift’s range as a performer and Gaga’s sheer panache,” writes _Rolling Stone_. “Unfortunately, when the lyrics begin a brief and coy flirtation with lesbianism, Swift loses her credibility. Gaga can Bowie with the best of them, but country girl Swift is unconvincing in the role.”

Taylor cuts that bit of the article out of the magazine and mails it off to Gaga. She seals the envelope with a kiss.


End file.
